


Old Wounds, Fresh Scars

by luftschloss



Series: Bits and Shards and Pieces [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, M/M, One Shot, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftschloss/pseuds/luftschloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Long time no see,” she remarks as she recognizes the gray hair, the man’s dark blue mask. She sees his eye crease and steps aside to let him enter the small, stuffy room. Casually, he places a little bundle of notes on the table as he walks past it, sits down on her bed and takes off the black turtle neck without so much as touching his mask in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Wounds, Fresh Scars

**I  
**

“Long time no see,” she remarks as she recognizes the gray hair, the man’s dark blue mask. She sees his eye crease and she steps aside to let him enter the small, stuffy room. Casually, he places a little bundle of notes on the table as he walks past it, sits down on her bed and takes off the black turtle neck without so much as touching his mask in the process. She always wonders how he does that.

 

“Why do you hide it?” she asked once, referring to his face but, of course, she had obtained no answer. “No chit-chat,” the teen had told her the first time he came there. That day, she tried to take off his mask when she thought him distracted, had been surprised at his swift reaction. “Don’t,” he had said sharply, glaring at her; the grip around her wrist painfully tight. “Let go,” she had winced, “please.” Only then had he loosened his grip, allowing her to draw back her hand. He had been uneasy, that day, and awkward; yet strangely self-assured. What a strange kid, she’d thought back then.

 

She reaches out for the little bundle, starts to count the money, knowing it is more than enough. He pays enough for her to send anway any other customer until he choses to leave, enough not to be disturbed. Yet, one can never be too careful. If there was one thing she’d learned in all those years, that was it.

 

“No chit-chat,” he had said. They rarely talk. Their conversations are quiet, hushed. It is her who initiates them, her who keeps them going. She likes the sound of his voice, the muffled mutters in which he replies. She isn’t much older than him – two, three years maybe. Yet, when she watches him lie there after they’re done, she feels so much younger. There is something strange about that man, she thinks.

 

“Shall we get started?” she asks as she hears him shift on the bed; neither eager nor impatient. He nods and she kneels down in front of him, sliding her hands along his waist, his thighs. He shakes his head, motions for her to rise again.

“Gotcha,” she says, unbottoning the minuscule skirt she’s wearing. She slides off the almost transparent top and turns around, gets in position.

 

Even now, he is slow, almost careful. As if it wasn’t all that ordinary. She knows he is a frequent customer at other places, knows he treats the girls there differently. Not less aloof, but harsher. More demanding. What is it, then, with her?

 

 

 **II**

It’s the quickest, easiest way to fuck. No flirting, no fussing around. No silly little games, no pretending to care, no having to remember the girl’s name. No feigning interest, no guilty conscience for leaving as soon as they’re done.

 

With her, however, things are different. He fights the urge to come there until it overcomes. It isn’t the girl, he knows that well. He doesn’t care about her, couldn’t care less about the way he knows she looks at him. She isn’t very cheap, either, or particularly good at what she does. He can afford other, better, prettier women, he knows that by now. But none of them looks like her, he thinks as he slides his hands over her lithe, boyish body.

 

She senses his breath grow slow again, deeper, quieter after that moan, that moment. She parts from him, turns around.

 

As he sees her face, he turns away; abrupt, sudden. He feels the exhaustion, the pleasure seep through his body, mingle with that too familiar pain. Whatever it is he still feels, even now, even years after he’d lost that person.

 

He shouldn’t have come, he thinks as he hears her shifting beside him. He gives in, turns around again to take a look at her.

 

Clear blue eyes. Clear blue eyes, short blond hair.

 

She smiles. It scalds him.

 

“How about now?” she says quietly, drawing closer again, lowering her head, her lips to his crotch.

 

“Alright,” he says, closing his eyes.

 

You’re a fucked-up man, Hatake Kakashi, he thinks. You’re a fucked-up man.


End file.
